


On the self-domestication of urban foxes

by Dienda



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And they were neighbours, DILF Francis, Developing Relationship, Domestic Bliss, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, James tries to catch himself a dilf but only ends up catching feelings, Kid Fic, Kid Jopson, M/M, Sexual Content, just putting the F in DILF, with a tiny bit of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29413536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dienda/pseuds/Dienda
Summary: “Good evening,” the man said gruffly.“Good evening,” he answered, offering his most charming smirk.“We’ve seen you around before, right?” the man asked with a note of suspicion as he came to stand by the boy, lifting one broad hand to the child’s dark hair. James didn’t begrudge him the tone; he was, after all, a strange man talking to his son at the park.“Yes,” he nodded easily, and then gestured in the general direction of his street. “I just moved in a few days ago.”———After a chance meeting at the park, James strikes up a friendship (and maybe more) with his new neighbour.Written for my Terror Bingo square "Single Parents".
Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames, James Fitzjames & Thomas Jopson
Comments: 36
Kudos: 93
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	On the self-domestication of urban foxes

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise in advance, this is completey un-betaed because I spent way too long writing it and got really impatient about posting, so here we are. Also, I'm still getting used to writing in English again so, sorry if the prose gets super clunky at times.
> 
> I still hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

For a moment, James wished he’d brought along his tin of colour pencils, but he’d only thought to grab his most recent sketchbook and a simple graphite pencil before making his way to the park. There were two small, fat robins perched on a tree branch just close enough for him to sketch in perfect detail and having a splash of red and orange for their breasts would’ve been perfect. Oh, well; he kept drawing anyway. The mid-March day was overcast and a bit nippy, but his good mood found even the gloomy weather pleasing. He’d just finished moving into his new home. There were still a couple of boxes waiting to be sorted but the whole hassle of moving furniture and filling drawers and wardrobes was over.

Well, the house belonged to his brother William, but James still thought about it as his home. Will’s work had led him to move his family to Brighton, he didn’t want to sell the house but wasn’t keen on renting it either. James, on the other hand, spent half of his time out of the city — if not out of the country altogether — and was getting tired of paying rent for a flat he barely used for anything more than sleeping a few nights a month. So when Will had suggested James move into the house so it wouldn’t sit empty and he wouldn’t have to throw his money away on a half-empty flat James had jumped at the idea.

He was familiar with the house, of course, though not so much with the neighbourhood. It wasn’t the trendiest place in London, but it was close enough to the studio and, above all, it was quiet and elegant, with its charming terraced houses painted in soft pastels and its quaint shops and small park full of chirping birds and grey squirrels. James wondered if he’d get so see any foxes. Weren’t urban foxed starting to domesticate themselves? Maybe he could feed one in his small back garden, tame it.

“Foxes know to stay away from people who would harm them,” said a small voice, startling James out of his thoughts.

He looked up to see a boy standing a few steps away from his bench, staring at him with big, pale-green eyes and an expression as dispassionate as his voice.

“I— I wouldn’t harm them,” James blurted out, after a moment of slack-jawed surprise. He hadn’t realised he’d said his thought out loud. He cleared his throat and smiled, regaining his footing. “They’re lovely animals.”

“They’re wild animals,” the boy added stoically, “they’re only as tame as they want to appear.”

“So they are,” conceded James.

The child didn’t react or made to move away, just kept staring intently at James. He seemed an unusually serious child, clad in dark trousers, an equally dark peacoat and a pair of perfectly shined shoes; his black hair made his porcelain-white skin almost translucent.

Unsure how to proceed, James let himself fall back on his gregarious nature, smiled brightly at the boy and— he stopped himself from asking the boy’s name. Surely that was something perverts stalking children at parks did.

“Are you alone?” he asked instead and immediately regretted it because, fuck, that was just so much worse. “I mean; you shouldn’t be out on your own. Where are your parents?”

“It’s fine” the boy said, his eyes never leaving James. “My father’s always watching.”

Right. Like that wasn’t ominous at all. James resisted the urge to whip his head around like an utter tit. There was something almost unnaturally still about this child; between Will’s offspring and his various duties as godfather, James was no stranger to children and, in his experience, the creatures were almost incapable of being motionless, even when purportedly at rest, they were constantly fidgeting. Especially small children. This boy couldn’t be older than six.

“Well, that’s good,” he offered. When the boy just blinked back at him, James tucked his pencil into his notebook and made to stand up. “Uhm, thanks for the advice about foxes, I’ll keep it in mind. Well, bye.”

He started walking down the park’s narrow lane, towards his street, not sure how to feel about the encounter.

҉

He saw the child again, a couple of days later, as he was coming home from a meeting with his producers. He’d stopped at the grocer’s and was walking home from the tube, canvas bag clutched under his arm, humming along with his earphones; he turned the corner to walk down his street and was almost to his house when he looked out across the road and saw the boy.

He was still wrapped in his peacoat but now, next to him, there was an enormous black dog. James almost tripped on his own feet before coming to a halt. Both the child and the dog turned to look at him. Between the falling light and the pitch dark fur, James couldn’t make out the dog’s expression, but it was almost as tall as the boy.

Then the boy raised his hand, palm outstretched in greeting. It took James a moment to react; he raised his own hand and waved back. The boy lowered his hand and resumed his staring so James walked the remaining steps to his house and unlocked his door, trying to remember what kind of bad omen black dogs were.

҉

James felt almost like skipping on his way to the park. After a week of endless meetings and revising viewer ratings and sponsor deals, the studio had not only agreed to order four additional episodes to the current series of his programme, they’d also ordered a second series and announced a partnership with British Airways. James was over the moon. He’d been nervous about changing his style so drastically; he’d gone from adventure, almost survivalist travel docs to a series about high-end hotels and exclusive spas. It was a big gamble, aiming for a more exclusive audience, but the numbers showed the new programme was well-liked and even managed to secure the studio more lucrative sponsorships.

He’d had a celebratory lunch with both Barrows after the meeting and then come home still quite giddy about the whole thing. So he’d decided a bit of people watching in the park was just the thing to unwind. The weather was still chilly but the park was busier than it’d been on his first visit, there were parents trailing their children around the grass and a few couples walking down the narrow lanes.

James was admiring the plaid coat a young woman a couple of benches away was wearing when a small voice made his head snap so fast his neck gave a twinge of pain.

“Are you him? The new man, the traveller?” the boy asked. His sea glass eyes were as serene as usual but there was a hint of curiosity in his voice this time.

“I suppose I am,” said James, a bit unnerved at the idea of the child apparently knowing who he was.

Then the boy said “We’ve seen you through the windows but we haven’t seen your face.”

“Right,” James muttered, nothing creepy about that. Still, his curiosity about this odd child only increased, he leaned in with an inquisitive frown. “Who are— are you sure you’re not alone? Where are your parents?”

“My father’s here,” the child said, and this time his pale eyes moved from James to somewhere just over his shoulder. Before he could turn he heard the low panting of the dog and the soft thud of someone approaching. He plastered a congenial smile on his face even as he braced himself because surely the man was— Oh.

James had expected someone as oddly sombre as the child, a man pale and gaunt who looked like he’d stepped right out of a gothic novel or a German expressionist film, but the man who came around the bench was broad and ginger and quietly, devastatingly attractive. He looked about mid-forties, a few grey hairs growing at his temples but, clad in a deep green jumper, jeans and a smart leather jacket, there was nothing dreary about him; the man’s eyes were almost sky blue, much warmer than the boy’s, his features framed by a tidy beard, reddish gold flecked with white.

“Good evening,” the man said gruffly, in a pleasant Irish lilt. James almost sighed at the sound of it.

“Good evening,” he answered, offering his most charming smirk.

“We’ve seen you around before, right?” the man asked with a note of suspicion as he came to stand by the boy, lifting one broad hand to the child’s dark hair. James didn’t begrudge him the tone; he was, after all, a strange man talking to his son at the park.

“Yes,” he nodded easily, and then gestured in the general direction of his street. “I just moved in a few days ago.”

Something like recognition passed through the man’s face and his posture relaxed a bit. “So you’re the bloke who moved into the Coninghams’ place.”

“I am,” James confirmed as he stretched his hand out, giving the man another discreet once over. God, his thighs. “James Fitzjames. Pleasure to meet you.”

The man considered his hand a second before taking it in a firm, warm shake. “Francis Crozier. You’ve met Thomas,” he smiled down at the boy before pulling lightly at the dog’s lead, “and this one’s Neptune.”

The dog certainly seemed much more friendly up close, more fluff than fang. He sniffed at James’ knees and lolled his tongue out when James reached out to scratch one of his ears.

“Very nice to meet you all. Thomas tells me you lads have been trying to catch a glimpse of me?” he asked in a teasing tone, just to see the man’s reaction, “something about peeking through windows?”

Crozier’s face broke into a guilty smile, boyish and charming and, oh, there was a gap between his front teeth that made James have to bite his own lip.

“We’re right across the street from you,” Crozier explained, much to James’ delight. “We noticed the moving lorry but we hadn’t got a good look at you.” He shrugged but the skin across his cheekbones was still lightly pink. “It’s a quiet neighbourhood, someone new is almost as exciting as the Queen riding by.”

“Well, I hope I won’t disappoint,” James said, his voice going low and velvety. He shook himself a second later, he’d met the man two minutes ago, for fuck’s sake, not to mention that his child was standing right there. The man was married for all he knew. He cleared his throat and asked, “did you like them? The Coninghams?”

Crozier seemed puzzled by the question but nodded. “Lovely couple. They were good neighbours,” he added pointedly. “The children were very friendly.” He looked down at Thomas as if for confirmation. The boy nodded, sneaking an arm around the back of his father’s leg. “We were sad to see them go. No offence.”

“None taken,” James smiled, his expression turning fond at the comments about his family. “Will Coningham’s my brother.”

Crozier’s eyebrows rise in genuine surprise. “Really?”

James grinned coyly, and wrinkled his nose with a rueful shrug. “Fitzjames is my screen name actually.”

“Right,” Crozier nodded and gestured to the houses at the other side of the park, “Mrs. Franklin said you’re on the telly. Something about adventure, are you an actor then?”

James gasped in mock disappointment. “I take it you’re not one of my loyal viewers?”

Crozier chuckled. “Sorry, apart from She-Ra and TG4 we don’t watch much telly.”

“It’s not good to watch much telly,” said Thomas with a stern shake of his head.

“Very true,” agreed James before smiling up at Crozier. “I’ve a travel programme.”

“Really? Sounds exciting.” Crozier sounded actually interested.

James barely resisted the urge to preen, instead, he shrugged nonchalantly. “It can be.”

“Well, we’ll keep an eye out for you, Mr. Fitzjames Coningham, both on the telly and through the windows,” said Crozier with a teasing smirk before pulling lightly on the dog’s lead and taking the boy’s hand, clearly ready to resume their walk. He gave James a quick once-over, — more assessing than lustful — and added, “come knock on our door if you need anything.”

҉

“So, your work is going on holidays and getting spa treatments,” Crozier asked with the incredulity of someone who thought the very idea was ridiculous. James imagined the life of a physics professor wasn’t exactly exciting, or prone to extravagance, for that matter.

They were at the park again. As the excitement and the chaos of the move and the new contract had started to fade, James went back to his everyday routine, or as much of a routine as he had when he was in town. He’d start the day with a run around the neighbourhood and tried to cook as much as he could instead of just getting takeaway and, now, went out for a stroll around the park at least a couple of times a week. Sometimes, when he was lucky, he ran into his new neighbours.

“Well,” he answered with a smug grin, “I also have a hand in the production, and write a column for the channel’s magazine, some articles for other outlets, the occasional book.”

Crozier shook his head with a smile, his eyes never leaving the figure of his son playing with Neptune a few yards away. “Well, you do sound like someone who reviews luxury hotels.”

“Oi!” James exclaimed in mock offence but dissolved into a chuckle when Crozier threw him an unimpressed look. Not his fault his mum was a philosophy professor and a poet who’d made sure her children had excellent diction. “You’re just jealous I get paid for getting massages,” he said primly.

Crozier’s brow pinched, like he was actually weighting how much he’d like having James’ job. He scratched his beard thoughtfully. James wanted to know, very badly, what it would feel like against his lips. “It sounds a bit nightmarish, actually,” Crozier concluded.

That startled a laugh out James. He shrugged. “I was in the Navy before that so I think I’ve earned the pampering.”

“Fair point,” Crozier conceded. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. James knew he didn’t look the type, his clothes and his hair and his manner didn’t exactly point to a career sailor. They watched Thomas silently for a moment before Crozier asked, “how long did you serve?”

“Almost fifteen years. I enlisted as soon as they would have me,” he answered, “got deployed twice to the Arabian Peninsula but spent most of my time on the Indian Ocean until—” he faltered. Most days he had a dozen rehearsed stories about his time fighting pirates and terrorists in the Middle East, a couple of them even centred around the injury that had seen him invalidated home, but now the words seem to dry in his mouth. He felt too much himself for war stories. He waved his hand like the details didn’t matter, “medical discharge.”

Crozier nodded but didn’t pry. James took a deep breath and went on, changing the subject without changing the storyline, “I missed the travelling so I started going around, on my own. I’d record some of it, to share with friends, family. Started uploading the videos, for a lark, really, only I started getting more and more views. Enough that I had to take an editing course and buy a better camera.” He felt his confidence bloom bright and solid again. “Then one night, I ended up in this truly sordid bar in Singapore, bumped into this other Brit who was there ‘on business’ and we started chatting. Turns out this bloke’s father runs a television studio, produces investigative documentaries mostly, but also some travel stuff. So next thing I know I’m back in London signing a contract for a TV doc and that lead to a book deal and another programme and another book and now to a very long line of luxury spas. All in the span of five years,” he finished with a proud smile.

Crozier did look a tiny bit impressed now. “That’s quite the astronomical ascent. Well done.”

“It does feel a bit surreal sometimes,” he admitted.

Before they could say anything else, Thomas came back to their bench, cheeks tinged pink with exertion and a lock of his dark hair falling over his forehead. He pushed the lock back with his small hand and declared, “We’re tired now.”

Crozier huffed out a laugh. “Alright, then.”

Then Thomas stepped closer to his dad and stood stock-still, holding his arms slightly up, almost like a mannequin. Without further prompting, Crozier reached out and started straightening the boy’s clothes: his shirt collar, the hem of his jumper, the buckle of his small belt. “Dad,” the boy whispered, fussy, and pointed one of his feet up. Crozier took out a handkerchief and wiped a smudge of wet grass sticking to one of his otherwise spotless shoes.

James stared at the proceedings with an amused smile. The first time he’d seen them do it, a few evenings ago, he’d been mostly puzzled, but now he found it quite endearing. Thomas was the oddest little boy but he was starting to grow on James.

“That’s a very beautiful jumper you have on, Thomas. I love it,” he commented, examining the boy’s clothes. It truly was lovely, in a very dark blue, with starts and planets and nebulas embroidered in metallic thread; it looked too fine to be something mass-produced.

“Thank you,” Thomas said with a shy smile, “My mum made it for me. She makes clothes. She has her own shop.”

“Wow, that sounds wonderful.” So there was a Mrs. Crozier, though James had seen no trace of her so far. Crozier didn’t wear a ring but, well, not every married man did.

“She is,” declared Thomas with a serious nod.

“Yes, we’re very proud of her and we love her very much,” Crozier agreed, smiling at his son. He finished securing Neptune’s lead and stood. “Well, it’s home for us. Are you staying a while or would you like to walk back with us?”

The depth of his attraction to this man was entirely ridiculous but James would never, ever make a move on a married guy. Ever. On the other hand, he really enjoyed the man’s company, so he brushed aside his disappointment and got to his feet with a smile. “Lead the way.”

҉

James went on two short trips in the following weeks, a three day stay at Cliveden House and a quick jaunt across the channel to a luxury spa in the north of France. When he was home, he bumped into the Croziers almost every day as he came back from his morning run and they left for the day, Thomas strapped to his Paddington backpack and Crozier always clad in a series of smart, casual suits that did very little to hide the strong line of his thighs and made James want to walk across the street and kneel between his legs. But most of their encounters, their real encounters, still took place at the park. Which was where James was right now, reading the latest poetry volume his friend John Bridges had sent him.

It was April already but spring was taking its time blooming, the day had been wavering between sunny and overcast, dreadfully windy all throughout. He’d had lunch with the Charlewoods in Mayfair, and then he’d done some shopping for his next trip and Will’s birthday. He’d had been wearing his own version of a power suit: a lovely pussybow blouse with puff sleeves, a pair of exquisitely tailored Houndstooth trousers and his favourite spring coat. The sky had been bright and clear when he got home so he’d changed his patent leather shoes for a pair of Toms and dropped the coat before heading out again. He knew just the right bench to enjoy the afternoon sun.

And that was exactly where he’d been, enjoying his book and doing his best to ignore the occasional gusts of icy wind, when he was interrupted rather rudely.

“Good god, man! What are your wearing?” Crozier was looking at him with a troubled expression.

James’ head snapped up and he felt his hackles rising as he kept from letting out a disappointed sigh. God, it’d be such a shame if this beauty of a man turned out to be a twat. “Problem?” he asked in a crisp, haughty tone.

Crozier scowled at him like he couldn’t figure out why James would feel offended. It obviously dawned on him a couple of seconds later. “No,” he shook his head with a huff, “I meant, lovely as it is, that blouse can’t possibly be warm enough for this weather. Wind must be cutting straight through you.”

James’ anger deflated in an instant. “I— it wasn’t quite as chill when I left home,” he admitted, with a rueful shrug. “I was hoping the sun would be enough to keep warm.” Which it had, at first, but now the wind was starting to pick up with a vengeance. “I was about to go back home.”

The other man kept looking at him with all the disapproval of a grandmother. “Makes me feel like throwing a blanket on you and handing you a cup of tea.”

“Well,” said James, letting his voice straddle the edge of flirty. “I wouldn’t say no to that.”

Crozier blinked at him in mild surprise but then his face broke out into a smile. James, damn him, was back to being enchanted. “Then we’d be delighted to have you over for tea,” he looked down at Thomas, who’d remained aloof during the whole exchange, “right?”

“We’d be very pleased,” the boy confirmed with a sweet smile at his dad and a smaller, more tentative one at James.

“If you don’t have any prior engagements,” Crozier added, giving him a long, teasing look that, for an instant, made James think his attraction wasn’t as one-sided as he’d assumed.

“None whatsoever, I’d be delighted to accept.” James marked the page in his book and got to his feet. That’s when he realised Crozier had unbuttoned his cardigan and was already slipping it off to offer it to James.

“No, Crozier, I’m fine,” he objected, trying to stop the other man with a hand on his arm “Crozier. Francis— it’s only a three-minute walk, for god’s sake.”

“I insist,” Crozier said, brushing James’ hand aside and draping the cardigan over his shoulders. “You were shivering,” he said pointedly. “I’m inured to the cold, anyway.”

“Thanks,” James murmured. He knew he was probably blushing, in both sincere embarrassment and utter delight. The cardigan was so warm and he was pleased to note its deep burgundy colour complemented his outfit magnificently. He had to fight the urge to sink his nose into his own shoulder and breathe in the mingled scents of clean wool and Crozier’s simple, yet masculine eau de toilette.

“Right,” Crozier cleared his throat. “Let’s get some scones, then.”

They made their way to the other end of the park, down a narrow side road and then kept going until they stopped at an unassuming storefront with only a small sign above the door marking it as a bakery.

“Best baker for miles,” Crozier commented, probably noticing the unconvinced look on James’s face.

“Dad, can I get a chocolate biscuit?” Thomas asked as his father instructed Neptune to wait on the pavement.

Crozier smiled, “of course, my heart. Choose whatever you want.”

They entered the bakery with the bright chirp of the bell. A tall, broad man was arranging rows of macarons inside the glass display; he was obviously the baker, clad all in white, from his apron to his cap. He looked up at them and straightened with a smile.

“Good day, Captain,” he greeted, knuckling his forehead. “Hello, Thomas.”

James’ eyes whipped to Crozier but the man didn’t acknowledge his surprise at all. “Hello, Mr Diggle, how are you?” he replied before touching his hand to James’s back. “This is Fitzjames, he’s new in the neighbourhood, just moved in last month.”

“Nice to meet you,” James turned to give the baker a friendly smile.

“Nice to meet you,” the man wiped his hand on his white apron and held it out, then he squinted at James, “aren’t you that bloke from the telly? The travel docs?”

“Only some times,” James confirmed in his modest voice, though he made sure to throw Crozier a pointed look as if to say ‘ _see?’_

“He was also in the service,” Crozier commented after cocking an unimpressed brow at James.

“Oh,” the baker gave James’s hand another hearty shake, “always a pleasure to meet a fellow sailor…” he looked at James expectantly.

“Ah, commander.”

“Especially when they’re introduced by Captain Crozier,” added Mr. Diggle. They made some small talk about where James and Mr. Diggle had served, before purchasing their pastries and stepping back outside.

“Captain?” James asked accusingly as they started making their way back. Thomas was walking a few steps ahead of them, with Neptune.

“I was going to tell you,” said Crozier with a guilty smile and a small blush.

“Right.”

“I swear I was,” he insisted. “I don’t know, I’ve always thought of myself more as a scientist than a sailor. I enlisted at sixteen, with twelve siblings it was pretty much the only chance I had at getting a higher education.”

“Well?” James prompted.

“Not much to tell.” Crozier shrugged. “I went for Maritime Science and then they let me study Geophysics and Atmospheric Science, I was part of the Antarctic Survey. Spent over ten years going back and forth, working either at Rothera or Halley, with the occasional trip to the Arctic. Decided to retire when Tom arrived. I taught for a bit and then went back into research; we lived in Nunavut, up in the Canadian Arctic for a little over a year.”

“Wow,” James breathed, sincerely impressed, then he huffed, “I can’t believe you let me prattle on about my trips like an utter tit when you’re a bloody polar researcher.”

“Plenty of places I haven’t been to,” said Crozier diplomatically.

James sighed, “I’ve always wanted to see the Arctic.”

“It is something else.” Crozier nodded with an unmistakable wistfulness, then he gave James an impish side-glance. “How come such a prestigious traveller hasn’t made it to either of the poles yet?”

“Well,” James huffed, “as you probably know better than anyone, organising a trip to the poles isn’t exactly easy, not like you can backpack there, unless you hop on one of those bloody arctic cruises but I’ll eat my uniform before I set foot on one. My producers would rather send me to 50 different spas than arrange a single trip to the Arctic.” And truth be told, his current series was little more than 45-minute advertisements for posh hotels, even if he tried to infuse them with as much cultural details as he could. “My programmes are popular, but I’m not Michael Palin, I’m not worth the hassle.”

Crozier looked thoughtful for a moment before saying, “I do enjoy a good Michael Palin documentary.”

James knocked their shoulders together with a glare. “Oh, sod off.”

The first thing that occurred to James when he saw the inside of the Croziers’ house was ‘perfectly compliant with regulations’; even from the foyer he could see the place was spotless, which wasn’t really surprising for a Navy veteran, but a bit more so considering a small child and a very large dog also lived there.

Crozier nodded to Thomas before proceeding to the kitchen with the pastries, “go wash your hands while I put the kettle on.”

James followed the other man, “let me help, I basically invited myself.”

Crozier waved him away towards the sitting room, “just go sit down, you’re a guest. Won’t be a moment.”

The sitting room was also perfectly tidy, not even a stray toy forgotten on the sofa; the only trace of the boy was a brightly illustrated volume of _Darwin’s Tree of Life_ on a side table, even the dog bed on one corner looked immaculate. There was a modest TV unit by the far wall and a pair of large, glass front bookcases flanking a beautiful renovated fireplace. Two photographs sat on the mantel: one of Crozier and a smaller Thomas, both red-nosed and smiling out of twin fur-lined hoods with a snowy field in the background; the other of a young woman, obviously Thomas’ mother judging by her pale green eyes, her dark hair and the soft curve of her smile; she and Thomas were sitting outside what looked like the Maritime Museum, she was smiling at the boy while he showed her the penguin-bedecked snapband around his wrist.

“Is your wife out of town?” James asked as Crozier came in bearing a tray with their pastries. He’d tried to catch a glimpse of the elusive Mrs Crozier but he’d been completely unsuccessful; it was possible that she was out on a long trip but, apart from their conversation around Thomas’ jumper, neither of them had really mentioned her again. James was almost certain Mr and Mrs Crozier led separate lives. “I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

“No wife,” said Crozier, giving him an amused look, like he knew James was fishing for information. “It’s just Tom and I here.”

“And Neptune,” piped Thomas, he’d just come out of the bathroom.

“Yes, how could we ever forget Neptune when half of our money goes into dog food,” grumbled Crozier.

The kettle whistled and Crozier went back to the kitchen. Thomas knelt by the coffee table, he took the plate with James’s chocolate éclair and placed it carefully in front of James, “please allow me, Mr—” he faltered. “Should I call you Mister Coningham or Mister Fitzjames? Why do you have two names?”

James opened his mouth to answer and then closed it again. His usual line was that he wanted to keep his private life apart from his more public persona but maybe that answer was a bit too complex for a six-year-old. And it wasn’t entirely true, he’d chosen the name, ridiculous and corny as it was, as a way to reinvent himself after leaving the Navy, that way he could be the daring traveller rather than the broken, discarded sailor. He sighed, “well, it’s a bit like playing dress-up. But either name is fine, Tom,” he gave the boy an encouraging smile, “or you could just call me James.”

Thomas considered James’s words as he put his giant chocolate chip cookie on his own plate. “Alright… Mr. Coningham. Because you’re not on the telly now,” he decided. James was starting to learn the boy’s stilted manner was actually just his brand of shyness. Some children were stroppy or skittish around strangers, Thomas was formal.

“Very well, Tom,” he answered solemnly. 

Thomas was quiet for a long moment, a small frown marring his face before he looked hesitantly at James. “It’s Thomas, please. Only my father calls me Tom.”

“Oh,” James had to bite his lip not to smile lest the boy think he was mocking him. He cleared his throat and gave a deferential nod, “my apologies, Thomas.”

The boy shrugged, “it’s alright, you didn’t know.”

Crozier came back with the tea and they fell into easy conversation; James ended up telling them about his trek on foot through the Euphrates Valley. For all the times he’d recounted that story at parties —not to mention the book he’d written about it—, he thought maybe he’d never had a more attentive audience. Thomas kept asking questions about the more quotidian logistics, he seemed especially preoccupied with how James had done his washing on the road, while Crozier kept asking about the terrain and the people, the customs, things that took the spotlight away from James, but he didn’t mind. Crozier also kept scoffing at James’s most daring feats and carping about the details, his comments sardonic but never mean-spirited; James, instead of being annoyed, found himself quite invigorated by their back and forth.

“He seems like a really good kid,” he commented when Thomas had excused himself to go play upstairs.

“He really is,” Crozier murmured with a fond smile.

“He is frighteningly well-behaved,” James added, not entirely in jest.

Crozier let out a huff of a laugh. “I was blessed with the most orderly boy on earth. It’s like he’s the one who’s navy trained, I just try to keep up.”

“I’ll admit I found him a tad scary, that first day. He gave me a lecture about leaving foxes alone.”

Crozier nodded like he wasn’t in the least surprised. “Someone ran over a kit a few months ago, he’s been fiercely protective of them ever since.”

“Do you have any tips?” James asked, “about foxes?”

“Repelling or attracting them?” Crozier gave him a doubtful look.

“Attracting, of course,” James reassured, “I was hoping for a fox friend.”

Crozier snorted softly. “Well, some people leave food out for them, but that’s just a good way to get rats, and not really healthy for the foxes either.” He shrugged. “My honest advice? Let them be, they’re wild animals. If they choose to play in your garden they’ll do it regardless of what you do. If you’re lucky, they’ll keep doing it. If you’re really lucky, they won’t mind that you keep peeking at them through the window. One day maybe they’ll stare back without running off.”

҉

James found himself knocking on the Croziers’ door not four days later, huffing with frustration and feeling more than a bit desperate.

“Did you mean it? When you said I could ask a favour?” he asked after mumbling a quick hello. Crozier just stared at him, clearly bewildered. James raised a placating hand, “it’s alright if you didn’t, I’ll just—”

Crozier shook his head, “of course I did. What do you need?”

“They’re renovating their walls or something, next door,” he explained pointing out the construction van parked outside his neighbour’s home. “Well, normally I’d have no problem with it, but I have two columns to write by the end of the week and I just can’t concentrate with all the bloody noise. I asked one of the workers if they’ll be here long and he said it’ll take around a fortnight.”

“Hmm,” Crozier offered a sympathetic nod, “the downsides of terrace housing.”

“And I know I could just go to a coffee shop or something but, truth is, I’ve never been able to work outside.” It was true. Mostly. He could have armed himself with his thickest set of headphones and the mildest ambient playlist he could find but it would take him ages to concentrate enough to actually get something done. “So I wanted to ask if you guys would take me in while I finish writing?” He made sure to use the kicked puppy expression he’d perfected on Will when they were kids and James wanted to play outside. “Just a couple of days, just in the afternoons, I’ll cook you lads dinner every day, I’ll walk Neptune, I’ll take your bins out.”

“Alright,” Crozier stopped him with a hand on his arm. It was now that James noticed the man was in shirtsleeves, there were freckles on his forearms. “Let’s stop before you offer to teach my classes and put Thomas through grad school.” He patted James’s arm before withdrawing his hand. “Of course you can work here, we’re always quiet as mice.”

“Thank you! You’re saving my life,” James said with his most sincere smile. “I’ll just go get my things.”

Crozier offered him use of his own desk; there was an office at the back of the house, across from the kitchen, a shared space with Crozier’s desk on one end and a narrow table where Thomas did his homework on the other. James refused to make Crozier move from his own space and insisted on taking the kitchen table. He set out his laptop and his notebooks and began drafting the first article, about his last trip to Scotland a couple of months ago. They really were quiet as mice, the only sounds coming from the office were Crozier’s low typing, the rustling of paper and the occasional murmur. James got so lost in his work he quite forgot where he was until the short scrap of a chair snapped him out of it. Thomas was saying something to his father.

“Let’s see then,” came Crozier’s answer, followed by the low squeak of his swivelling chair. “Ask someone— oh, dear. Well, love, you know I’m not good at drawing anything other than graphics but we’ll see what we can do.” James kept typing as he half-listened to their conversation, he could hear Thomas’ voice but couldn’t make out his words. Crozier spoke again, “oh… I don’t think it would be cheating, it does say ‘someone at home’ and he’s here so…” James perked up at that, “if he’s not too busy. Do you want me to ask him for you? Alright.”

A moment later, Thomas appeared at the kitchen door.

“Mr Coningham?” he asked shyly.

“Yes, Thomas?” James smiled up at him and the boy took a couple of steps toward him.

“Are you too busy?”

“Ah,” James shook his head, “let me just finish this sentence,” he said typing the last two word on his last paragraph and hitting the Full Stop, “and I’m all yours. There.”

Thomas came to stand beside him and showed him his workbook, the only sign that he was nervous was his slightly pinched brow. “I have to draw three animals, but it says I should ask someone at home to help me. Can you help me? Dad can’t draw.”

“Why, of course, Thomas,” James beamed at the boy, “it’d be a pleasure.”

“Thank you!” Thomas smiled back, “I’ll get my colours.”

James pushed his chair back and stood, “it’s fine, let’s go work at your table.”

He followed the boy back to the office. “He said ‘yes’,” Thomas stage whispered to his dad. Crozier chuckled with his charming gap-toothed smile and gave him a thumbs up.

James drew a bear, Neptune and an Adélie penguin —he had to look it up on his mobile, much to Thomas’ obvious though silent judgement. “My dad fought penguins when he was in Antarctica,” said the boy with a gravity that would make one think penguins were fiercer than lions.

“Did he, now?” asked James, throwing Crozier an amused look over his shoulder.

“Yes, there were very rowdy,” confirmed Crozier in a dignified tone, “the vicious little beasts would try to peck our bottoms when we crouched down to measure the ice.”

After they finished Thomas’ homework, James showed him how to draw simpler animal doodles out of geometric shapes. He remembered his mum teaching Will and him these same drawings, their wonder as the animals’ features started to emerge from their initial lines; he hadn’t told her about this blooming friendship with his neighbours but he was sure she’d be tickled blue.

“That’s enough grading for now,” declared Crozier after he’d been quiet for a few minutes.

“Dad, look,” called Thomas, “Mr Coningham taught me how to draw a sloth.”

Crozier pushed his chair back with a groan and walked around the desk to peer at their doodling. “Go hálainn, a ghíle mo chroí,” he leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of Thomas’ head before smiling at James with his sea-blue eyes. James smiled back, a bit dazed both at the smile and at hearing what he assumed was Crozier complimenting Thomas in his native Irish.

James ended up working at their home almost a week. Crozier wouldn’t let him follow through on his promise to cook for them, always waving James away with the same comment about him being a guest; he wouldn’t even let James pay the one evening they ordered takeaway. On the last day, James packed his things back into his satchel and thanked Crozier one last time.

“I really, really appreciate it, Captain” he insisted. They were both at the door, Thomas was upstairs getting ready for bed. Then, feeling bold, he pitched his voice low as he gave the other man a long, doe-eyed look, “even if you didn’t let me thank you properly.”

“You are a bloody tease,” Crozier grumbled before grabbing James by the waist and pulling him into a searing kiss. God, his beard felt exactly as exquisite as he had imagined. James moaned into his mouth and wrapped his arms around Crozier’s sturdy shoulders. The kiss turned filthy almost as soon as it started. Crozier had him pinned against the jamb of the open door, they were flushed against each other and Crozier was so warm James almost felt like melting against him with a purr.

The sudden horn of a car at the end of the street made them pull apart. They were both panting. Crozier looked at James’ mouth with dark yes before reaching up to brush his thumb along James’ lower lip, then he leaned in for another brief peck before taking a step back. He gave James a playful smirk, “go home, you lump. I have to do the washing.”

James had to bite his already reddened lip to control his smile. He nodded. “I’ll see you around, then.”

҉

James knocked, once again, on the Croziers’ door. He knew he ran the risk of looking desperate but, well, he did feel a bit desperate; it had been two days since Crozier had kissed him and they hadn’t seen each other again and now James was leaving for the Maldives the next day and wouldn’t be back for almost a fortnight and he felt like he wouldn’t be able to fully enjoy the trip if he didn’t get to shag Crozier first. He hadn’t been lusting over the man for almost two months only to let things cool down after a single kiss. It felt too much like a task left half done and James had never done things by halves. Though, at this point, even some heavy petting would see him through.

The door opened.

“Hello,” Crozier greeted him with a smile and ushered him inside. It was beginning to drizzle.

James had the sense not to proposition him right then and there in case Thomas was around, he could hear the soft babble of the television. “Hey, I wanted to ask if you were— oh, hello!”

Thomas and another boy were peering at him from the living room.

“Ned, this is Mr. James Coningham, he lives across the street. He is our friend. He’s also named Fitzjames but only when he’s on the telly,” Thomas said to the boy, in the gentle tones of someone trying to soothe a spooked animal, which wasn’t too surprising given that the boy in Crozier’s living room — a mop of dark hair above equally dark eyes and two rounded cheeks — had the helpless expression of a shell-shocked hamster. James noticed he was clutching Thomas’ hand in a white-knuckled grip. Then Thomas turned to James, “Mr. Coningham, this is Edward Little, he’s my best friend.”

“Hello, Ned,” James greeted with a small wave. Ned, still looking a bit stunned, mumbled a hello.

“Ned is staying the night with us, a bit of an impromptu sleepover,” Crozier explained, giving the boy a reassuring smile.

“Oh,” James did his best not to deflate too visibly. “Well, I— uhm, I just came by to let you guys know I’ll be gone for a couple of weeks and, uhm, would you keep an eye on the house, please?” he finished lamely.

“Right, no problem. Of course,” Crozier nodded.

“Right, I’ll just—”

“I’ll walk you out,” Crozier offered even though they were two feet away from the door. “You boys keep watching the telly, I’ll be right back.”

They stepped outside and fell into each other the second the door closed at Crozier’s back. This kiss was more urgent than the first, all tongues and teeth and clutching fingers. It wasn’t quite dark outside but they were huddled close under the small porch, there was surely no one around, it was still drizzling steadily. They pulled apart way too soon for James’ liking.

“I had thought maybe we could—” he began helplessly.

“I had the same idea,” Crozier whispered, running his hands down James’ sides, “but couldn’t say no when Ned’s mam asked if I could watch him for the weekend. His dad had some minor surgery but apparently there’s a lot of bruising, as you could probably tell, he’s a bit of an anxious lad. They don’t want to upset him.”

“Well, that was really nice of you,” James huffed, “I can’t even be cross about it.”

“I’ll make it up to you when you get back,” Crozier promised, drawing James into another, less frantic kiss. Christ, James wouldn’t mind cancelling his trip and just doing this for an entire fortnight. Then Crozier tugged his lower lip with his teeth before sucking lightly on it and James had to pull back with a whine.

“Right. You need to stop that if you’re not going to take me to bed right now.” He stared at Crozier’s lips for a long moment before sighing. “Ned better be the best mate in the entire world.”

Crozier chuckled, “he’s a good lad.”

“Well, I’m off then,” James said, taking a step back. The rain was beginning to let down.

“Have a safe trip,” Crozier called before going back in.

As James sprinted across the street to his own door, he caught sight of the lithe figure of a fox scurrying between two cars, into the growing dark.

҉

His phone rang as he was getting out of the shower. He felt a thrill of anticipation when he saw Crozier’s name on the screen. He let it ring a couple of times before answering with a seemingly distracted, “hello?”

“James, hello.”

James’ trip had gone by in a blur of blue skies and turquoise sea; he was glad he kept very detailed notes because at the end of it he could barely tell one resort from another, one restaurant from the next. Dundy, his cameraman, had convinced him to go clubbing a couple of times; James had danced and flirted and both times he’d found someone who caught his eye, but both times he’d backed down before taking the men back to his hotel. It was shit, having a craving and knowing nothing would sate it but the precise thing you were craving.

When he came back home, they’d managed to exchange hurried blowjobs in James’ sitting room the day after his return but, if anything, it had left him feeling more frustrated than before. Crozier had been in the middle of some project at work and then James had been mired with meetings and expense reports.

“Good evening, Captain,” James said, his voice smooth and low.

“Good— yes. Right, uhm,” Crozier sounded downright bashful, which James found quite endearing because, well, they’d already sucked each other’s cocks. This was the same man who’d pin him to the wall with a kiss without so much as a warning. “Well, uhm, just wanted to let you know Tom’s having a sleepover with his mates, at Ned’s.”

“Is he?” James asked conversationally, he felt a bit guilty for playing dumb but he couldn’t help himself. “That boy has a busier social life than me, I swear.” It wasn’t a lie, Thomas had swimming class twice a week and Irish lessons on Thursdays plus all the playdates and sleepovers with his school friends as well as Crozier’s friends’ children.

Crozier huffed out a laugh, “well, I’ve no idea what it is to be an only child but I figure it’s a bit lonely, so I try to keep him around other children. He’s quiet enough as it is, I don’t want him to become a hermit.”

“A nice bit of parenting there, Mister Crozier.” They’d veered quite a bit off topic but at least the man sounded more relaxed now. “So, Tom’s out with his mates,” he prompted.

“I figured we could, uhm, I don’t know—”

“Have a sleepover of our own?” James supplied, taking pity on him.

“Yes,” Crozier breathed, “would you like to come over?”

James bit his lip to keep from blurting ‘yes’ immediately. “Mmh, sure. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be right there.”

He finished dressing slowly, leaving the lounge clothes he’d already set out in favour of a pair of dark jeans and the long-sleeve henley that made his shoulders look sharper. It wouldn’t do to look like he’d dressed up just for Crozier. Then he blow-dried his hair, applied his most sensual perfume and slipped a couple of condoms into his pocket.

Crozier opened the door at the first knock, there was still something tentative about him but he didn’t seem nervous anymore. James had brought a bottle of red wine; he normally had no trouble going straight to the sex but he felt it was a bit gauche when one actually knew the other person. He was relieved to find Crozier hadn’t set things for a romantic night or something of the sort, there was no slow music nor low lighting, just Crozier still in his work clothes, his freckled forearms in full display and a tea towel draped over his shoulder. He asked if James had had dinner, not invitingly, but like a grannie would ask. Like a father. James found it stupidly charming but declined with a soft murmur. They opened the wine and settled in the living room.

They only made it through one glass before James was all but straddling Crozier’s lap, cradling the man’s face in both hands to guide their kiss, Crozier’s broad hands exploring his back under the soft cotton of his shirt. When James reached down blindly to work Crozier’s trousers open the other man pulled back and shook his head. “I didn’t ask you over for a shag on the bloody sofa.” He pressed a placating kiss to James’ jaw. “Up.”

James followed him up the stairs to the master bedroom; the bedside lamp was already on, bathing the muted colours of the room in a soft, golden tint. Crozier’s room was even more spare than the rest of the house, just a small dresser and a single bedside table next to the sturdy looking bed. They didn’t tear each other’s clothes off, but rather undressed briskly, facing one another; there was nothing really seductive about it, but it somehow felt playful, they kept smiling every time they caught each other’s eye. James let his eyes rove Francis’ body: he was broad and solid, like he was made of something lasting, his half-hard cock hanged hefty and inviting below the slight curve of his belly, his shoulders and back were covered in freckles like a field of wild flowers, the soft blades of his eyelashes beaming like molten sunshine in the dim light.

Once they were undressed, Crozier stepped close and touched James, his hands mapping the shadows of his body, following the heated trail of his gaze. His fingers slowed down when he reached the starburst scar on James’ side, eyes flicking to the twin marks on his arm; James watched him read the meaning written on the pattern of marred skin but Crozier didn’t ask anything, just brushed the scar with the pad of his thumb and went on with his quest. Feeling impatient, James wrapped his arms around him and pulled him into a kiss, his breath stuttering at the first touch of skin on skin. They keep kissing as they tumbled onto Francis’ bed, a slow, deep exploration of each other’s mouth that soon had James almost unbearably aroused.

“Francis, please,” he panted, rolling his hips in the hopes of rubbing their pricks together.

“What do you want?” asked Crozier, pressing a line of sucking kisses to James’ throat. His voice was infuriatingly even.

James reached down between them and took Francis’ big, heavy cock in his hand, gave it a couple of lazy strokes that made the other man groan into the crook of his neck. “This.” He tilted his head to brush his lips against Crozier’s ear and hissed, “you know what I haven’t had in a while? A good, hard fuck.”

Crozier pulled back to look at him with a quirked eyebrow, his eyes gone storm blue, before nodding once sharply. “I’ll do my best, then, Commander.”

James rolled onto his front and shoved a pillow under his hips while Francis fetched lube and condoms from the bedside table. He was reaching for the lube when Crozier murmured an offer to get James ready and his thick, blunt fingers stretched him open in efficient, yet careful movements. James suspected this was exactly how Francis did absolutely everything: with a quiet, determined competence matched only by his gentleness.

James couldn’t help gasping and clawing at the sheets when the thick head of Crozier’s cock breached him; he relished the stretch, the delicious pressure of being split open and filled. Crozier slid inside him slowly, tentatively, until their hips met. James reached back to grab at his thigh and ordered him to go on. Crozier started moving slowly, in long, deep thrusts that made James want to trash against the sheets in both pleasure and frustration.

“More,” he grunted, snapping his hips back to increase the rhythm.

Crozier leaned over, pressed a kiss to his shoulder and whispered, breath hot against James’ ear, “We’ll get there. No need to wear ourselves out too soon.” James whined, unconvinced, eliciting a low chuckled from Crozier. “Very well, then.”

He started moving his hips harder if not faster, in sharp, snapping strokes, the loud slap of their skin coming together filling the golden half-light of room. James was nearly keening by the time Francis grabbed his hips with broad, rough hands and pulled him up sharply to his knees, pushing into him in a brisk, unrelenting rhythm that had James reaching out to brace against the headboard and babbling filthy nonsense into the sheets. Then Francis’s hand reached for James’ cock, taking it in a firm grip and thumbing roughly at the slit.

James’ body seized so hard there were sparks of colour behind his eyelids; he heard, as if from far away, Francis gasping and swearing against his nape, his cock pulsing inside him, before they both slumped down, slack and breathless, against the mattress. Crozier was the first to move, shifting onto his elbows to pull out gingerly. James groaned softly at the sensation but didn’t move otherwise; he was dimly aware of Crozier padding to the en suite. An endless moment later, he came back and began cleaning the lube from James’ skin with a warm towel.

“Did I make a mess? ‘m sorry,” James managed to slur when Crozier turned him over to wipe at the mess on his stomach. He was vaguely aware of having shouted at some point, his throat certainly felt like he had.

“Nothing the washing machine can’t tackle.” Francis finished cleaning him and walked away again. There was the low murmur of water and, a few seconds later, the mattress dipping beside him. Crozier peered at him, a smile hiding in the crease of his eyebrows. “You still with us, James?”

James barely had enough energy to shoot him a no doubt dumbstruck glance. “Jesus fucking Christ, Francis.”

“I’ll remind you I was just following orders, Commander,” said Crozier coolly. “I’ll take this,” he added gesturing at James’s boneless sprawl, “as a compliment.”

“Take it as a full endorsement,” James huffed. “Good god, man, you should put it on your business cards.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Francis answered primly, but the skin above his beard went so pink James wanted to reach out and touch it just to see if it was heated as it looked.

He’d actually meant to go back home, after, but didn’t complain as Crozier manhandled him to lie under the covers and then reached over him to turn the bedside lamp off before draping himself along James’ back with a murmured “Now to sleep with you, before you spout any more nonsense.”

James woke up to the delicious itch of Francis’ beard against his neck as a string of kisses was pressed to the column of his throat, his jaw and, finally the spot behind his ear.

“James,” Francis hummed, and James sighed softly as he squirmed closer to his delectable warmth. “Can I suck you off, please?”

“Yes,” he groaned, nodding blindly as he spread his legs to make room for Crozier. He was still half asleep but the mere thought of it sank a sharp claw of desire into his belly, into all the places where he still felt sore and sated. “Yes. Yes.”

The lingering drowsiness of sleep and the delicious heat of the mouth around him mingled and blazed until he came with a voluptuous sigh. Francis licked him clean before folding a small, warm kiss into the seam of his thigh. “Just wanted to do that properly.”

James tugged at his hair to pull him up, only to push him to his back and throw a leg across him, sitting up to straddle him in a single, fluid movement. “If we’re going to do things properly I have a couple of ideas.”

҉

“We finally caught one of your older docs,” announced Crozier, shooting Thomas a smiling glance.

They were in James’ kitchen, about to have lunch. Francis was helping with the table while James stirred his celebrated shrimp Lo Mein. Thomas was sitting at the kitchen island, walking a Lego figure across the polished wood while Neptune dozed sprawled across the patch of sunlight that entered through the backdoor at this hour. Crozier and he had tumbled into bed a few more times by now, but James was pleased to note their not-carnal interactions hadn’t changed one bit.

“Oh,” James flicked the stove off and turned to examine their expressions; he felt a jolt of delight at the thought of them actually sitting down to watch one of his programmes and, unexpectedly, it was accompanied by a frisson of self-consciousness. “Which one?”

“The one in Namibia,” Crozier answered, his eyes twinkling, “with the jaunt to the bird island.”

“Ah.” James nodded. That explained the amusement. He scoffed, “those birds have no respect for a good linen shirt.”

Because he knew that was exactly what they were thinking about. While filming in Namibia he had been asked if he’d like to visit Ichaboe, a small island famous for being a haven for a handful of endangered bird species, as well as some other rare animals like Heaviside's dolphins and southern right whales. The moment in question had come as they were walking along the inland; James had been explaining to the camera the conservation efforts done on the birds’ behalf when a fat, awfully warm glob of birdshit had landed on his shoulder and smeared down his chest. He’d taken it in stride and made a comment about this being the luckiest island on earth but, just as he’d finished saying that, a second splash of shit fell on his shirt, not two inches away from the first. The entire crew, their guides included, had burst out into a fit of almost uncontrollable laughter. While editing, they’d all agreed it was a fun, funny moment that made both James and the programme look more down-to-earth.

Here, in the kitchen, Thomas was giggling. It was nice to see poop humour remained a hit with young children, including the serious ones. Even Crozier was chuckling. James went on.

“And that’s only what made it on air,” he scrunched his nose, “by the end of the day we were completely covered in guano.” He shook his head. “And the ground, Thomas. It was thick with the stuff, it was almost like quicksand, every time we took a step it would just—” he mimed having his feet stuck to the ground.

Thomas was shaking with laughter now, an unrestrained, full belly laugh that showed the gap where he’d lost one of his front teeth and bounced off the sun-filled walls, startling Neptune awake and trapping James and Francis in its contagious mirth.

҉

James shifted his grip on the empty boxes under his arm, looked both ways and sprinted across the street to the Croziers’ door.

He’d gotten a text from Francis, which wasn’t strange at all. They were almost five months into their neighbours-with-benefits arrangement and they exchanged at least a handful of texts every day, even when James was away; when he was home they saw each other almost as often, mostly outside the bedroom. This particular text had given James pause because it simply read: _‘Do you have, by any chance, a cardboard box big enough for a child’s head?’_

He knew Thomas was having a playdate with his mates, to enjoy the last days of their summer break before the start of school next week, so he’d assumed the request had something to do with that. He’d fetched the granola box from the kitchen and, on impulse, grabbed the huge box from his new washing machine —Will’s old machine had died on him a couple of weeks ago— figuring that children, very much like cats, always enjoyed a good box.

“I was quite alarmed by your message, Mister Crozier,” he said when Francis opened the door and tugged him inside before any of the boys or the dog crowded around him could even think of stepping outside.

“That why you replied ‘Yeah, I’ll be right there’?” asked Francis with a wry tilt of his eyebrow. “It’s for the wains,” he grumbled, gesturing at the four boys. They were all clad in full long johns and all but Tom had cardboard helmets on their heads. Even Neptune was sporting what looked like a knitted cap with a pipe cleaner antenna protruding from it.

“We’re astronauts,” said one of the boys. James only recognised Ned, this boy had big, curious eyes and curly blond hair plastered to his forehead.

“I see,” James nodded. “Are you very far from Earth?”

“We’re still on Earth,” said the boy with a tragic sigh, “Ned’s helmet got squashed so Thomas gave him his, but we can’t go until everyone has their full uniform.” Ned was wearing an aggrieved hamster expression inside his borrowed helmet.

“An absolute crisis,” noted Francis.

“Quite,” James agreed gravely.

“Are you Mister James James?” asked the other boy, eyeing him warily. He had short dark hair and hazel eyes.

James couldn’t help chuckling. “That’s me, yes. I think. Has Thomas told you about me?”

“Yes!” piped the blond boy.

“You brought the box,” Thomas chimed in with a wide smile, obviously trying to bring some sort of order to the whole situation. Then he introduced the other two boys as George and John.

James handed him the smaller box before tapping the other one. “I also brought this in case you gents were in need of a spaceship.”

The boys erupted into a chorus of cheers and little voices. James beamed at them and then turned to smile at Francis; the man was shooting him a look that managed to come across a both fond and murderous. James wanted very much to lean in and kiss him but settled for giving him a shit-eating grin. Then, taking pity on him, turned back to the children and added, “I can help you make it.”

That elicited another round of cheers as the children started tugging both him and the box towards the stairs.

“Wait,” Francis stopped him with a hand on his arm, he’d grown serious, subdued somehow. He said, “James, you don’t have to, if you were busy—”

“I wasn’t,” James assured him. The part of him that had always loved elaborate games and playing dress up was already planning exactly how to transform the box into a spacecraft. “It’s alright, I want to.” Again, he wished he could kiss him. “And it was my idea, I won’t let you have all the fun.”

Crozier rolled his eyes. “Very well, then.”

He was basically dragged up the stairs while Francis tried to keep Neptune back and to liberate either the box or him from the multitude of little hands that were intent on keeping an iron grasp on both. He finally managed to secure the box but chided them with a firm though still gentle, “boys, at least give him some space. You’ll scare him off.”

He’d never been inside Tom’s room before; he’d just caught glimpses of powder blue walls on his trips to Francis’ bed. His first thought was that it was much bigger than it was supposed to be, then, from the distribution of his own house, he realised the two smaller bedrooms at the back of the house had been merged into a single, large room. On one side there was Thomas’ bed, it had a trundle underneath, ready for sleepovers no doubt, and, on the corner next to it, another dog bed with a couple of chew toys and the plush puffin James had seen Neptune cuddling from time to time. The opposite wall had been painted into a chalkboard, not black but navy blue; on one side there was a short list of Irish words in Crozier’s tight handwriting, all relating to food judging by the drawings next to each of them, the rest of the wall was occupied by the boys’ doodling: something that looked like a planet and the sun and a flying saucer with a green face peeking from it. James was ecstatic to find a horse on the surface of the planet, drawn exactly as he’d taught Tom all those months ago. There were also toy boxes, a wardrobe, a full bookcase and small table with chairs beneath the back window, but even with the chaos of the boys’ playing, the room managed to look orderly.

James reassembled the box and marked the parts of the future ship while Francis helped Tom cut the visor on his helmet. Ned remained shy but applied himself to drawing the Union Jack on the side of the ship with quiet efficiency while John painted the fins with an almost fervent intensity. George picked up a crayon to add details but ended up just standing next to James, telling him all about his piano lessons while James cut out the windows. Once it was ready, the boys attempted to get in all at once, helmets and all, while the adults tried to keep the box upright through their laughter.

Then Francis and he settled to watch the kids play until it was time for tea and biscuits. For the life of him, James couldn’t remember what he’d planned to do that day, probably avoid doing his latest expense reports or something equally dreary.

҉

As excited as James had been about getting the chance to film at one of the fanciest boutique hotels in town, the actual stay had been a tad underwhelming. The place was certainly posh and both the rooms and the restaurant were exquisite, but it was all clearly designed for people who came to London as tourists and therefore were going to spend most of their time outside exploring the city; having to stay three full days inside the premises had been beyond dull. After checking out, he’d shouldered his valise, waved Dundy and the rest of the team goodbye and caught a cab home. He dropped his luggage in the washroom, opened the windows, changed into his comfy jeans and went across the street.

Francis had left the door on the latch for him, James had called him on the cab and basically invited himself for supper. He’d just toed off his trainers and put on his slippers when Thomas came barrelling out of the kitchen and launched himself at his legs.

“James!” It wasn’t quite a hug, Thomas kept his hands away from James’ clothes — his fingers were covered in flour, James noted — but it was far more effusive than he’d have expected from the normally impassive boy.

“Hello, darling!” he beamed at Tom.

“We’re baking biscuits,” Thomas said, the point of his little chin digging painfully, wonderfully, into the meat of James’ middle.

“I can smell that,” James chuckled as he reached down to smooth Thomas’ hair away from his forehead. “It smells delicious.”

“There you are,” quipped Francis when James entered the kitchen, “saved us the trip across the street. How was your offshore holiday?”

James shrugged, “rather dull, actually.”

Francis sighed dramatically. “When a man is tired of London spa treatments he is tired of life.” James stuck the tip of his tongue at him, much to Tom’s delight. Francis chortled and wiped his hands to present James with a tin of ginger snap biscuits. “Tom says these are your favourites.”

James reached for one, they were still warm. “Mmh, yes. Our favourite biscuits was one of our first serious conversations, right?” Thomas nodded gravely. James gestured at the array of baking sheets and pots on the stovetop; Tom was cutting even more biscuits with a round cutter while Francis stirred one of the pots. “You lads mass producing now? Can I help?”

“They’re for Tom’s teacher,” Francis explained, “and some for us and some for weary travellers,” he gave James a wry grin. “And shepherd’s pie for supper. If Tom’s done, can you put his tray in the oven, please?”

James washed his hands and put the oven mitts on. “Ready when you are, Tom.” He shook his head with an apologetic grin. “Thomas, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” the boy didn’t look up from this task, just shrugged one thin shoulder, “you can call me Tom too.”

James’ eyes snapped immediately to Francis, he was turning to James at the same time, eyebrows arched in mild astonishment but an amused grin curling the corner of his mouth. Then he offered James a half shrug, the movement an exact copy of his child’s. James stood there, feeling more than a bit giddy until the shrill ring of the kitchen timer snapped him out of it.

҉

James had never felt nervous about travelling. Even in his Navy days, even when he’d been deployed, he’d always loved travelling too much not to be excited about it. But as he sat in the plane that would take him across the ocean to Cancún, he couldn’t help feeling restless. This was to be his longest trip of the year, over six weeks, from the middle of September to the end of October. His producers had decided he should film all the Caribbean episodes in one go, starting in Mexico and then jumping up to the Bahamas and making their way down through the Antilles to the Guianas. It would be tiring and a bit frantic but nothing he hadn’t done before. The thing was, he also couldn’t help admitting that his unease had less to do with the journey itself than with the act of leaving. Of being away from home. From Francis.

He’d had other arrangements like this before, friends he could have fun with when the mood struck, without any kind of strings or expectations between them and without any kind of exclusivity. This thing with Francis was supposed to be like that but it was also different. For starters, by chance, or out of convenience, really, James hadn’t been with anyone else since they started having sex. Five months in, the sex remained so spectacular and they had it so often he’d stopped even considering hooking up with someone else, even when out of town. There was certainly something to be said about getting to know someone’s body, having his body and his desires so thoroughly known and indulged, but James had never been so long with a single person. Then there was their friendship. James genuinely loved spending time with Francis, and with Tom, it was so very easy to be himself around them, so easy to be fond of them, but he was wary of getting too familiar. So, it would be good to get some distance, to spend time away, if only to keep the line between their friendship and their sexual relationship perfectly clear.

And yet, as he was given a tour of an ancient Maya observatory and taken swimming in an impossibly beautiful natural pool, all he could think was _Francis and Tom would love this. If only they were here with me to see this_. His bouts of moping got so bad even Dundy noticed.

“Are you alright, Fitz?” he asked about three weeks into their journey, as they lounged by the pool at their Punta Cana resort, “I never thought I’d say this but you actually look homesick.”

“Nonsense,” James scoffed, “think I just might be coming down with something, bloody air conditioning.”

The six weeks went by as hectically as he’d expected, not that it was bad in any way, he loved his job too much not to enjoy himself but, at the end of it, it did feel like there was such a thing as too much tropical sunshine. At least their partnership with BA meant he got to travel first class so he managed to get some sleep on the way back.

It was way past midnight when he got back home. He dragged himself upstairs and undressed without turning the lights on. Before he crawled into bed, he went to the window and peered at the gloom outside. At that same moment, a thin, small fox was strolling gingerly along the pavement, its snout down, following a scent. James watched it, enthralled, until it disappeared down the street.

He woke up almost at noon, had breakfast —there were fresh eggs and sausages in the fridge, Francis’ doing, no doubt— and a quick shower before dragging his suitcases into the washroom to sort his dirty clothes into piles for later. Then he grabbed his keys and made his way across the road.

“Well, someone sunned himself like a lizard,” Francis commented when he opened the door and took a look at him.

James shrugged with a smug smirk, “shit job but someone’s got to do it.”

Francis snorted. “Thought you wouldn’t be back until tonight.”

“We got a warning about a storm. We had enough footage so we decided to flee before getting caught in it.” Then he gave Francis a wide smile and couldn’t keep from bouncing on his toes a little. “Do you boys want to come over? I brought Thomas some stuff.”

“Hmm,” Francis hummed as he shook his head. “Tom’s not in, he’s off at the cinema.”

“Oh,” James tried not to deflate too much, it was only his usual array of souvenirs, books and airport Toblerone but he’d been looking forward to giving it to Tom. But if Francis was alone— “Do _you_ want to come over?” he murmured, making his voice a teasing purr, “I’ll show you my tan lines.”

Francis huffed out a laugh but his eyes fell to James’ mouth. “Mmh, I was about to sit down with the latest issue of the Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society,” he sighed like James was asking him to come over to help clean the cutlery.

“Well, then I’ll leave you to it,” James said, calling his bluff. He made to turn away.

Francis grasped his wrist before he could take even one step and pulled him back with an amused huff. “I have to at least pretend I’m not gagging for it, don’t I? Let me just turn the computer off and make sure Neptune won’t trash the house.”

James considered he’d displayed a commendable level of restraint so far so he finally leaned in and pressed a wet, promising kiss to Francis’ lips. “Come straight up.”

He went back to his house and hurried up the stairs. He thought about waiting for Francis naked, stretched out on the bed, but a glance at his open wardrobe gave him a better idea. He undressed hastily and slipped the garment on, it was a cotton chemise he’d found in a lingerie shop a few years ago; there was nothing inherently sexy about it, no lace, no racy straps, it was rather Victorian actually, the bateau neckline fell just over his collarbones and the short sleeves were barely wide enough to cover his shoulders, it would be longer on a woman but on him it came down his mid-thighs. He knew the white made his tanned skin look an even deeper shade of burnished gold. The cotton was so soft and so light it was nearly see-through, he made an effort to tamp down on his anticipation, it wouldn’t do to ruin the lines of the camisole with an overeager erection. He was leaning over the mirror of his vanity, fussing with the wave of his hair when the low whine of his bedroom door made him turn around.

“Christ, James,” Francis was standing in the doorway, staring at him with an open, awestruck expression.

“Do you like it?” James resisted the urge to fidget under Francis’ gaze, this was something he’d only ever worn for himself, because it made him feel lush and delicate in a way that had little to do with sex. When Francis nodded, James crossed the space between them and took him by the hand. “Come here.”

He guided Francis to sit on the bed and crowded him until he was standing between his legs. Francis’ warm hands brushed the back of his thighs, moving up ever so slowly, until they found the hem of the chemise and went on, gathering it in his palms, higher and higher until it frothed at his waist like seafoam.

“Christ,” Francis breathed at the sight of James’ evenly bronzed skin. On screen, James would appear wearing the most tasteful assortment of swimwear, but the truth was, most resorts were quite alright with their high-end guests sunning themselves without a stitch on. Francis buried his face in James’ middle and pressed a sucking kiss to the hollow of his hip. He groaned, “how are you so bloody beautiful?”

James felt the ache of his desire tightening in his belly, he sank his fingers in Francis’ hair, his entire body curling towards him, and sighed “Francis.”

Francis he grabbed him by the waist and pulled him down onto the bed. “I’m going to kiss every single inch of you.”

He seemed intent on doing it too, touching his lips to James’ temple, his jaw, the hollow of his throat, he nuzzled light, gentle kisses to the downy cave of his armpit, his scars, the grooves of his ribs and the basin of his belly. When he pressed a trail of open-mouthed kisses to James’ hardening prick, James gasped, “stop.”

He’d had an idea of what he wanted when he came upstairs to wait for Francis, even when he was slipping the chemise on he’d been thinking about having a blithe, enthusiastic romp, maybe fucking Francis on his hands and knees —he always took James so eagerly— but now he couldn’t bear the thought of not having Francis inside him, bearing him down into the bed, pressed so closed together they were sharing breath. He needed to see his face, to read his pleasure in his blue eyes, to have Francis kiss him while making love to him.

“James?” Francis had withdrawn immediately at James’ command.

James scrambled to tug him up, to pant into his mouth, “inside, please, Francis. Please.”

He suffered himself to be stretched and gentled until, finally, Francis started pushing his prick inside him. “Did you miss me?” James moaned the moment they were flushed together. He’d missed this so badly. There was something so comforting in cradling Francis’ weight between his thighs.

“Of course I missed you,” Francis grunted, pulling back only to press in again slowly, “I missed your skin, you cock,” his words were marked by the roll of his hips, by his kisses, “missed your lovely smile, your words. I missed you so much, sweetheart.”

James’ pleasure threatened to overcome him. To soon, to soon, to soon; he tried to tamp down on it, to bank it. “Francis, I kept thinking about you, I—” he managed to gasp. The searing heat inside him was almost too much to bear and still he bound it with both arms, wrapped his legs around it and pulled it closer.

Afterwards, he lay plastered against Francis’ side, listening idly to the beating of his heart. Here was another advantage of having a steady lover, he thought, the possibility of being close and quiet, once their passion was spent, without it becoming awkward, quite the opposite, feeling in perfect harmony. Francis’ fingers were buried in his hair, brushing back and forth like he was petting a lazy cat. James felt he could happily doze like this, except he couldn’t remember if Francis had mentioned having to pick Tom up soon; he knew Francis would let him sleep but he didn’t want to wake up and find him gone.

“Where’d you say Tom was?” he mumbled.

“Went to the cinema with his mam,” Francis’ words rumbled against his ear. “They usually make a whole day of it, won’t be back ‘til the evening.”

“Francis,” James hesitated, feeling suddenly wide awake, wondering if it would be prudent to ask what he’d been wondering for months now. “You don’t have to answer but, can I ask about—”

“Tom’s mam?” Francis guessed easily.

“You’re not just divorced, are you?” James knew plenty of divorced couples had perfectly amiable relationships but he still couldn’t reconcile her apparent absence from Tom’s everyday life with the unbridled affection Francis clearly felt for her. And, whenever Francis or Tom talked about her there was never any mention of their life together.

“No. It’s, well—” Francis sighed, his hand dropped from James’ hair.

“You don’t have to answer,” James repeated, drawing back to look him in the eye.

“It’s not like it’s a secret,” Francis murmured, but there was something guarded, vulnerable in his expression, “it’s just—”

“It’s fine,” James leaned in, gave him a chaste, apologetic kiss. “Forget I asked.”

“No, I—” Francis shifted until they were both on their sides facing each other, he cupped James’ face in his warm, rough hand. “I’ll tell you.”

James shook his head, he took Francis hand in his own and turned his face to kiss his palm his fingertips. “It’s none of my business, I don’t need to know.”

Francis gave him a long, searching look, his sea blue eyes mapping James’ features with an almost frightening intensity. Then he said “I trust you.”

James’ breath hitched at the words, a dull ache blooming in his chest only to disappear a moment later, leaving him with an almost euphoric warmth. “Francis—”

“Tom’s mam, her name’s Sarah. Jopson.” For a long moment, it seemed like that was all he was going to say, before he continued, “she was my neighbour.”

“So you make a habit of seducing your neighbours,” James said lightly, hoping the quip would dispel the fraught mood between them.

“Like _I_ seduced _you_ ,” huffed Francis. He grew serious again but the tension in his features was gone. “No, it was never like that with her. We never—” He shook his head. “My old flat, it wasn’t much but, my friend Jim, his uncle owned the building, and he’s normally a cantankerous old miser but he’d been in the Navy too and liked me for some reason, so he’d let me keep the flat and pay almost nothing when I was at sea. I lived there pretty much the whole time I was in the Navy.”

James gave a hum of assent; he knew all too well the hassle of looking either for storage or for a place to live when you knew you’d be on land only a handful of months before being sent away again. He’d spent most of his time on land staying at Will’s or crashing on Ned Charlewood’s spare bed.

“Anyway, at some point a group of girls moved into the flat next to mine. They were all very young, probably fresh out of school. Sarah was one of them.” He shrugged, “they reminded me of my older nieces so I tried to keep an eye out for them, help them as much as I could when I was around. Well, girls came and went, there was always someone new, but Sarah remained.”

“You were friends,” James ventured softly.

Francis nodded, “I guess we were just a constant in each other’s lives; she was always there when I came back and, though I’d leave every year, I’d always return in spring, like a migratory bird. Anyway, last time I left she was living with a bloke, they seemed in love.” He stopped, his face grew pinched, angry. “When I came back, Tom was four months old. She was alone. He’d cajoled her into keeping the baby only to fuck off before he was born.”

James felt his stomach drop, his heart started hammering in his chest. He sighed, “what a fucking prick.”

Francis grunted. “She was running herself ragged, working two jobs, Ieaving the baby with friends, neighbours, taking pills to stay awake. I— I offered to marry her.” Francis gave him a faint, rueful smile before scoffing, “I thought I was being helpful, I was away so long we wouldn’t even have to pretend to be together. But it was the opposite, it was just offering her a bigger cage. Truth was, Sarah didn’t want any of it; she loved Tom so much but she didn’t want to be a mother, didn’t want to be anyone’s wife.”

“So you—”

“We said he was mine, fixed all the paperwork. I quit the service and went into teaching, two of my sisters came down to help us the first few months, they were the only ones who knew at the time. She gave me full custody when Tom turned two.” Francis reached out and held on to James’ arm, looking at him earnestly, almost pleadingly. “It was — this way Sarah can love him without resentment and he has a mam who’s happy and healthy. She went back to school and finished her degree, Textile Design. She’s studying Marketing now, will finish her Master’s soon, that’s why she hasn’t been around so much. Her shop is doing great,” he gave James a soft, knowing smile, “I think you’ll love her clothing, she’s so poised and elegant, like you.”

James returned the smile before asking, gently, “does Tom know any of it?”

Francis’ smile withered a bit. “No, of course not. He only knows his mam and dad are friends and not a couple like other parents. I know he is entitled to the truth and we’ll tell him, one day,” his face grew distraught, “I only hope he won’t feel betrayed, deceived.”

“He won’t,” said James intently. Francis gave him a bland smile like he thought James was offering a hollow platitude. “Francis, he won’t feel betrayed, I promise.”

“James, we can’t know—”

“ _I_ know.” James hesitated for a moment, thinking of the weight of his own truth. But he too trusted Francis. He’d already told him about the war and his jumble of shamed, confused feelings about it. He’d told him what it was to lie on the deck of a ship, chocking on his own blood and thinking he was going to die with a bullet burning a hole in his chest. He met Francis’ eyes and began, “I guess my story is not too different from Tom’s. My mother was an international student, from Brazil. My father was, well, a sleazy arsemonger mainly, and married to someone else. One of his brothers worked at the university but I don’t really know how they met.” He shrugged. “Anyway, she wasn’t really ready to be a mother, I mean, who would, given the circumstances, so she looked for someone to take me.”

Francis moved closer, rubbing his arm. “Oh, James.”

James shook his head, this wasn’t a sad story, that was his point. “My mum— I mean, Louisa Coningham, she was a lecturer in a different department, but she’d heard the story through the grapevine. She and my dad had been married for about a year, had no real plans to start a family yet, but they offered to adopt me. They told me when I was sixteen.” He smiled at Francis, took his face between his hands. “What I mean to say is: my birth mother couldn’t take care of me but she loved me enough to give me to someone who would, and I’m so grateful for that. I was an extremely happy child. So is Tom. That’s why I can tell you with a certain degree of confidence that your son won’t hate you, Francis, neither of you. If he’s anything like me, he’ll love you even more.”

“James—” Francis was looking at him with wide, watery eyes.

James gave him an equally wet smile before leaning in to kiss him. Francis pulled him into a tight embrace, his breath shuddering against his neck. James held him just as tightly. “Thank you for telling me.”

҉

“Trick or treat!” James called when the boys opened the door. He was greeted by a chorus of ‘Mr James’ and pulled inside.

Francis was on his mobile, his brow creased in an unhappy furrow. He waved limply at James before murmuring into the phone, “no, no, I understand.”

James left him to it and turned his full attention to the boys. He was going to a party with Dundy later, but he’d promised Tom and the boys he’d stop by to see their costumes before they went trick-or-treating. George’s costume was by far the loudest, he was wearing a bright pink dress with and enormous bow in the front and an equally bright conical hat atop his blond curls.

“Look at my dress! He said tugging on James’ hand. Then he twirled around so fast he almost toppled over. “Isn’t it pretty?”

“Yes, George, it’s very pretty,” James confirmed with a chuckle.

John, in a white robe, golden wings and a tinsel halo looked perfectly attired for a nativity play rather than a Halloween party. James had no idea what Ned was supposed to be. On his head there was a sort of papier-mâché cap with leaves and flowers and he was wearing a stained, misshapen sackcloth onesie with random loose threads poking out of it that gave the idea of a plant. A turnip, maybe.

Francis must have noticed his utter befuddlement, for he leaned it to whisper into James’ ear, “he’s a mandrake. One of his sisters helped him make it. No clue where they got the idea.” James pretended to guess the boy’s costume and earned himself a small, tentative smile.

Thomas had waited patiently for James to turn his attention to him, he had a knitted cap on and what looked like a bulky tan coat, a strap across his chest held a small satchel and a wooden shotgun to his back. James knelt down to take a closer look at him. The cap, he realised, was actually a welsh wig and the rough coat could only be a set of slops.

“You’re a polar explorer!” he breathed, delighted. “Did your mum made it?”

“Yes!” Tom beamed at him. “We copied it off one of my books.”

James couldn’t have stopped smiling if he tried. “It’s great, Tom, you look amazing, I love it.”

After showing off their costumes, the children went back to playing. George started chasing the other boys around, giggling about kissing frogs while Neptune went around them over and over, tail wagging madly.

Francis was still on the phone. “Don’t worry, I can manage, it’s ok. Bye,” he said before putting the mobile away and sighing dejectedly.

“What’s wrong?” James asked, a bit worried.

Francis gave him a rueful smile. “Nothing too dire. George’s mam was going to help me with the boys but her A&E is flooded so she can’t get away, George’s other mam is also on call until nine. Ned’s parents, well they have another four children so their hands are pretty full already. And John’s parents are a bit too Christian for Halloween, we pretty much had to beg them to let him come.”

“I’ll come with you,” James offered easily.

“James,” Francis shook his head, “you’ve got that party with your mate Dundy. We’ll be fine.”

“You haven’t gone to a single grown up party in the last six years, have you, darling?” James asked with an amused smirk. “It’s barely sundown, Francis. The party’s much later.” Then he gave in and swooped in to smack a kiss to Francis’ beard. “It’ll be fun. Will and I only went out a couple of times as children.”

He didn’t give Francis the chance to get another word in, he turned to the children and asked “can I tag along? I’ve always loved trick-or-treating.” As he’d expected, the boys loved the idea, so he added “if you give me five minutes, I’ll put my costume on.”

“Fine,” Francis huffed, rolling his eyes, “go on then, while I get this lot sorted.”

He ran home and up the stairs. His outfit for the party was already out on the bed, Dundy had called it more of ‘a slutty costume benjo’ than a proper Halloween party so James had prepared a frilly number involving falsies, a very tight corset and a pair of fishnet stockings. He’d never wear that particular getup around the children, obviously, so we went to one of the spare bedrooms and fished out the Britannia costume he’d worn a couple of years ago; it was a bit creased from being in the closet but the boys wouldn’t mind. The evening was getting a bit nippy so he put on a pair of leggings and a thermal shirt beneath the robes. The shield would be a bother but he put the breastplate and helmet on.

Francis was still wrestling everyone into their shoes when he got back. He looked up and gave James a long, appraising look before grumbling “of course you’d be some sort of Greek goddess.”

James didn’t correct him, just winked at him and gave him a coquettish smirk, “did you expect anything less, dear?”

Francis had narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to reply when John tugged on his sleeve.

“Mister Crozier, are you sure Jesus won’t be cross with me for trick-or-treating?” asked the boy, his little brow crumpled in a troubled furrow.

Francis didn’t miss a beat, he smiled down at the boy, “I’m sure Jesus wants you to have fun with your friends, John. It’s just playing dress up.” John didn’t look too convinced, Francis crouched down to talk to him. “Tell you what, we made soul cakes, we’ll have some later, that’ll get some souls into heaven.” That seemed to convince John, who nodded and went back to his friends.

Then, as they were about to leave, Neptune shouldered his way through the boys and planted himself in front of the door, ready to leave. Francis pulled him back with a stern look, but his voice was gentle when he said “no, Neptune, you’re not coming. We have to watch the wains; we can’t keep an eye on you too.” The dog whined softly but moved back. Francis scratched his velvety ears, “You get too excited with the costumes. You almost knocked poor George to the floor when he got here, remember? Go lie on your bed, go on. I’ll give you a treat when we get back.” Once Neptune had gone back to the sitting room, Francis grabbed the cruddy witch hat that’d been hanging from one of the pegs in the foyer, put it on and said “right, let’s go or we won’t make it even next door.”

On moments like these James wished he’d met Francis during their Navy days, he would have loved to see him in command of a mission, self-assured and competent, meeting whatever came his way with absolute steadiness. Though he would have probably hated James, who always used to throw himself headfirst into everything until it almost killed him.

“Can I go with James?” asked Thomas once they were outside, he was already hovering at James’ side, throwing his dad a wide-eyed, expectant look. “Le do thoil?”

James remained very still, ignoring the sharp flop his stomach had just given. Francis quirked an amused eyebrow at him before nodding at Tom. “Cinnte, a stórín.”

Thomas took his right hand and, since Ned always followed Tom’s lead, James’ other hand closed around the boy’s chubby fingers. James resisted the urge to squeeze both their hands and coo at them.

As they started making their way down the street, James heard George’s voice asking “Mister Crozier, did you know Halloween comes from an Irish holiday?”

“Yes, George,” came the soft reply, “I’m Irish, remember?” George seemed baffled for a second but then went on, undaunted.

When they came back, James and Francis helped the children sort their sweets on the kitchen table; when they were done the boys handed him a couple of Mars bars, a tube of Smarties and a small packet of Haribo, James saw them thrust a handful of sweets into Francis’ hands as well.

“What’d you get?” he asked Francis, showing his candy off.

Francis snorted, “all the boiled sweets they don’t want and a packet of liquorice.”

James couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. He bumped their shoulders together. “I’ll give you half of mine.”

Then James made hot chocolate for the biscuits Francis had baked and they settled in the living room to watch Kiki’s Delivery Service, the boys clustered on the floor in front of the television, the adults on the sofa. He got so focused on the film he barely thought about the time until Francis squeezed his shoulder and murmured “James, your party.”

“Right,” he startled as if out of a dream. He noticed then that he was curled flush against Francis’ side, head on his shoulder, the other man’s arm draped loosely around him. James had taken his Britannia robes off to make the chocolate, Francis had lent him one of his jumpers — he suspected it was one of Sarah’s, judging by its softness and the large, stylised compass star embroidered on its side — and he was so perfectly warm and comfortable. He fished his mobile out of his waistband and saw the hour. It was just past nine, if he started getting ready now he’d made it just fashionably late. Instead, he typed a quick text telling Dundy he wasn’t going to make it after all.

“Think I’ll skip it. I don’t know anyone except for Dundy, really,” he mumbled. It was true, not that had ever stopped him from going to a party before, he knew he could walk into any crowd and come out with a handful of new friends at the end of it. He was just so warm the idea of taking off Francis’ jumper and squeezing himself into a pair of fishnet stocking was monstrous. Then a thought struck him and he made to draw away, turning to look at Francis, suddenly hesitant. “Unless you—”

“No,” Francis said before James could finish, his arm tightening around him. He pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth and then one to his temple. “You know you can stay here as long as you want.”

҉

As November came to an end James’ schedule got busier and busier. He wouldn’t be travelling until the new year but there was a barrage of end of the year meetings to discuss ratings and outlines and new marketing campaigns, and by the second week of December he’d received an avalanche of Christmas party invites, half of them mandatory engagements with his producers and sponsors.

Right now he was coming home from such an evening, having dined with the Barrows and the owner of a local resort he’d reviewed in early February. He’d made plans to have a quiet night in with Francis, just a bit of telly and hopefully some slow, lazy lovemaking. When he got out of the tube James decided to skip the perfunctory stop at home and just go straight to the Croziers. He dragged his feet up their street and, as he got closer, he noticed Francis’ door was open, two figures standing by the threshold. He slowed down his steps and finally stopped a few metres away. He couldn’t see Francis’ face but he was chatting with another man, blond and kind-faced, around his own age; the soft wind carried their voices to where James was loitering.

“Don’t be too worried if he’s not hungry, just try to give him plenty of fluids,” the man was saying in an easy, professional tone, “ginger or peppermint and honey, chicken soup, you know the score.” James’ eyes snapped to the leather bag hanging from the man’s hand. “Call me if the fever rises or if it hasn’t broken by morning.”

“Will do.” Francis shook the doctor’s hand. “Thanks for coming out, Doctor McDonald.”

“Captain,” the doctor nodded and walked to the dark sedan parked behind Francis’ car. He turned back before getting in. “I’ll ring in the morning to see how he’s progressing.”

Francis waved him off as James finally approached. “Francis—”

Francis startled at his voice. “Shit, James, I forgot to text you, didn’t I?” He sighed and scrubbed at his eyes with one hand “I’m sorry, I meant—”

“Is Tom ill?” James asked, a nameless discomfort gnawing at his gut. “Is he alright?”

“He’s fine” Francis reassured him, “just the seasonal bug making its rounds at the school.” He heaved another weary sigh. “He’s got a bit of a fever so I called the doctor just to be on the safe side.”

James nodded dully, Francis reached out to run his hands down James’ sides. “Sorry I forgot to cancel, I was really looking forward to tonight.”

“It’s fine, it doesn’t matter,” James waved the apology off, “Tom’s more important. But he’s alright?”

Francis gave him an unbearably soft smile and nodded. “Aye, he’s stroppy because his throat hurts but he’ll be right as rain in a couple of days.”

They said their goodbyes and James went home, feeling irritatingly deflated. He tossed and turned all night, plagued with an inescapable restlessness that kept him from falling asleep for more than a few minutes at a time. He even got up a couple of times to straighten his bedlinens and peek out the window, at Francis’ dark bedroom window.

When the light shrouding his walls started to go from deep indigo into greyish blue, he got up and went downstairs to get the coffeemaker started. As he was getting a mug out of the cupboard he heard a shuffling, tumbling sound in the garden. He peeped out the window carefully, silently. The fox’s fur looked almost grey in the dark, it sniffed, quite fittingly, around the foxgloves, before nosing at James’ gardening apron, left on one of the deck chairs. He watched it raptly until, with a graceful leap, it sprung up to the wooden fence and disappeared into the remaining shadows. James put the mug back into the cupboard, poured the coffee into his travel mug and went upstairs to get dressed.

It was half past eight when he knocked on the Croziers’ door. Francis answered in his dressing gown, his eyes still heavy with sleep; James thought, almost distractedly, about reaching out and smoothing the pillow creases on the side of his face with his fingertips.

“James,” Francis squinted at him, “are you al—”

“How is he?”

Francis’ face softened. “Much better, fever’s gone. He’s asleep.” As he’d been as well, before James came knocking.

“Right. Sorry I just—” he raised the pot he was carrying; it was still warm. “I heard the doctor say chicken soup would be good.”

“So you—” Francis’ brows went up in an astonished arc but the rest of his face was breaking out into an impossibly gentle smile. “Thanks.”

James shrugged, even as he mentally thanked Francis for not making him say he’d gone out to buy chicken at six in the morning. He held the pot out, “it’s got noodles and ginger and herbs so he’ll feel better.”

“Thank you, you wonderful thing.” As he took the pot, Francis held on to James’ hands and began to pull him in only to stop abruptly. “Hmm, better not. I kept him in the bed with me last night, I’m probably covered in snot.”

_I don’t mind_ , James thought helplessly before mumbling “right.”

“Think we’ll keep away for a few days,” Francis said, “can’t risk you catching something when you need to be out and about with your sponsors.”

Again, James’ stubborn mind insisted he wouldn’t mind. He tamped down on the thought and let Francis go back inside. Later, when Francis sent him a picture of Tom, pale and watery-eyed but smiling faintly around a mouthful of soup, James felt that fitful, jittery knot in his gut finally slacken.

҉

James spent Christmas at Will’s house in Brighton. As a child he’d loved the holiday mostly for the presents and the occasional visit from their extended family who’d bring along one or two cousins for him and Will to play with. Then, during his Navy days, he’d learned to truly cherish the few Christmases he got to spend at home. This year, with only Will’s family, his parents and himself, it was a quiet affair but he let himself enjoy the time away from the agitation of the city and his own frantic schedule.

Christmas day started with the children dragging the adults to the tree to open their presents and then a loud, happy play session with said presents until everyone was too hungry to keep playing. After lunch they’d gone for a stroll at the Pavilion and then came back to get started on dinner. After helping things along in the kitchen James had been tasked with watching the children while Will and Liz put the finishing touches on dinner and his parents rested upstairs. So he settled with Ellie and Billy in the small conservatory overlooking the garden. As he played with them he couldn’t stop thinking about how Tom would interact with them. While the Coninghams had been cordial and neighbourly to the Croziers they’d never been truly friends, not like James. Tom, now seven —James had missed his birthday in November over a lacklustre beauty resort in Manchester—, was a tad older than Will’s children, but James knew that, given his mild, sweet nature and the almost saintly patience he displayed with his motley crew of friends, they’d all get along perfectly well. He’d have tea parties with Ellie and help little Billy with his building blocks, he’d be a marvellous cou—

James got up from the floor and sprawled on one of the armchairs to let the kids play together while he fished out his mobile and speed-dialled Francis.

“Hey, you,” came Francis’ easy, warm greeting. “Happy Christmas.”

“Hello, Mister Crozier,” James murmured, making his voice a low, velvety purr, “have you been naughty or nice?”

“Jesus Christ, James,” Francis hissed. The dim sound of voices wavered with the creak of a door opening and closing. “I was in a room full of people.”

James grinned to himself. “Do you have me on speaker?”

“You know what I mean,” Francis grumbled.

James hummed, letting the sound rumble through the line. “I did it for a lark but after such a positive response I think I’ll call back at a more _appropriate_ time.”

Francis huffed, “you’re a menace.”

He had a perfectly lewd response to that but decided to let the man off the hook. He let his voice go back to normal and said “Just wanted to wish you boys a Happy Christmas.”

They talked about their respective dinners and families, about the weather and how their trips had gone; a medley of mundane, boring topics that James would have normally avoided like the plague but that seemed unspeakably pleasant in Francis’ voice. He could hear children playing somewhere in the background, far rowdier and more numerous than sweet Ellie and Billy. Then he caught a familiar voice, much closer now.

“Tom wants to talk to you,” said Francis.

There was the tell-tale fumbling of the phone changing hands and then Thomas’ voice. “Hello?”

“Hi, Tom. Happy Christmas, darling!” James cooed. “How are you? Are you having a good time?”

“Yes,” Tom sounded a bit winded from playing, “it’s been snowing and my cousins have a sled.”

“That’s great!” James could picture him perfectly, pink-cheeked and smiling. “Are you wearing your hat and gloves? Remember you were sick just a couple of weeks ago.”

“Yes, James,” Thomas answered patiently.

James could feel his own smile growing. “Hey, what did Daidi na Nollag bring you?”

“Lego!” exclaimed Thomas, “A Lego set of deep sea creatures and it has a shark and an octopus,” he slowed down to pronounce all the syllables in oc-to-pus very carefully, “and a crab and a treasure chest.”

“Wow, I can’t wait to see it,” James gushed. He’d already known what Tom was getting because he was the one who’d helped Francis pick the toys. Just as he knew there was also a brand new bicycle waiting for Thomas back in London because he had been tasked with hiding it in his spare bedroom for almost a month and then, that morning after the Croziers had left for Dublin, he carried it across the street and left it in their foyer, along with a bundle of illustrated books, from himself, though he’d let Santa take the credit.

“I miss you,” came Tom’s tiny voice.

Something in James chest constricted painfully. “I miss you too, darling,” he whispered. “But I’ll see you soon.”

He heard Francis murmur something before Tom said “dad says we’re going back next week.”

“Well, I’ll be home by then. I’ll be waiting for you,” James promised.

There was the sound of the door again and a woman’s voice calling in Irish.

“Dinner’s ready, I have to go,” said Thomas, still sounding unhappy. Then he said “I love you.”

“I love you too,” James whispered back, without a second thought. Francis came back on and they mumbled a quick goodbye before ending the call.

A soft rapping on the conservatory’s inner door startled James out of his thoughts.

Will opened it and leaned on the jamb, he took a long, searching look at James before coming to sit down on the opposite armchair. “So,” he said carefully, “you’re finally getting serious with someone.”

“What?” James gaped, caught wrong-footed. While Will knew James had struck up a friendship with his old neighbours he had no idea James also found himself in Francis’ bed quite regularly. He cleared his throat. “What makes you say that?”

He must have sounded more defensive than casual because Will let out a chuckle and raised his hands, the very picture of innocence. “Now, I didn’t hear a single word but if you’d been smiling any wider your face would’ve split open.”

James gnawed the inside of his lip, a nervous sign that would’ve been useless to try to hide from Will. Found as he was, he decided on just being honest. He sighed, sagging against the armchair cushions. “I truly don’t know, Will.”

His brother gave him the sort of half amused, half forbearing smile he gave his children when they tried and failed to do something complex. “Oh, Jamie,” he said in the exact tone their mum would use, “I think you know perfectly well.”

James came back to London and spent two listless days at home waiting for Francis and Tom’s return. They came back on the 29th but James hardly had the chance to see them since Francis had friends visiting from Yorkshire. The Croziers spent New Year’s Eve with their friends while James let Dundy drag him to another party where he actually had a great time, except for Dundy’s drunken insistence on finding him someone to kiss at midnight, which he managed to avoid at the last moment. It wasn’t until the 2nd that he managed to spend the whole day with Tom and Francis. They spent the morning out at the park to try Tom’s new bicycle.

“I’m popping out to Mr. Diggle’s while supper’s ready,” said Francis, later that afternoon as he put his coat on, “I’ll be right back, you boys be good. Don’t burn the house down.”

“Yes, dad,” both Tom and James called distractedly as they kept playing on the living room floor. Francis snorted softly at them and left. Once James was sure Francis hadn’t forgotten his wallet or something like that he sat up in his folded legs and put down the Lego whale he’d been holding.

“Hey, Tom,” he began, “could we have a serious conversation?”

“Of course.” Tom didn’t let go of his toys but sat up as well, his pale green eyes fixed attentively on James.

James fidgeted anxiously with the hem of the gorgeous Aran gansey Francis had brought him from their trip. “You know I like you very much, you and your dad.”

Tom’s face broke into a smile so different yet so much like his father’s. “Yes, we like you too.”

“I know.” James was helpless to return the smile, then he steeled himself and went on, unsure on how to broach the subject, “I— I consider your dad a very good friend, but I’d like to be more than his friend.”

“You want to be his boyfriend,” said Tom like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Jesus, was it that obvious? James resisted the urge to let out a hysterical laugh and nodded sheepishly. Thomas answered with a sage dip of his head. “I’ve seen you kissing.”

James’ stomach dropped at that. The few times they’d had sex while Tom was asleep they’d made sure to lock the door and keep as quiet as possible but, most of the time, after putting Tom to bed, Francis would come back downstairs and they’d snog like randy teens, with plenty of groping to boot. Fucking hell, had Tom woken up sometime and seen them at it?

“You have?” he asked, feeling his soul leave his body.

Tom nodded again, going back to his toys like such matters didn’t merit his full attention anymore. “Dad always kisses you goodbye when you go home.”

James almost sagged in relief. While most of their doorway kisses weren’t exactly chaste, they were a far cry from what they got up to on the sofa. He cleared his throat. “Uhm, well— me being your dad’s proper boyfriend,” he had no idea if that’d make sense to a seven-year-old, “would that be alright with you?”

“Yes,” Tom answered easily, then his eyes widened in excitement. “Are you going to be my other dad? George’s mums were girlfriends before they got married.” His dear little face crumpled into a confused frown. “But that was before George was born.”

“I—” James’ stomach gave a flip at the sheer vertigo of the thought, but something hopeful, yearning clawed at his chest. It would be horribly cruel — to both of them — to encourage Thomas in something like that. He hadn’t even discussed it with Francis, for god’s sake. “I don’t know, darling. If your dad says yes we’d still have to get to know each other better, see if things work out. Does that make sense?”

Tom stared down at the toys in his hands, biting his lip thoughtfully. “Would it be like— when we got Neptune, Dad said it was a trial period,” he pronounced the term slowly, as if making sure he was saying it right, “and if he was good we could keep him.” He smiled. “And then we did.”

That startled a breathless, delighted laugh out of James. He nodded sharply. “It’s exactly like that, love. If I’m good, you can keep me.”

James couldn’t tell if Francis had noticed his nervousness or if he’d also been biding his time, but when he returned to the living room after putting Thomas to bed he sat beside James on the sofa and said, “can we talk?”

“Yes,” James smiled even as he felt his heart lurch in his chest. “I have some things I want to ask you.”

“James, would you hear me out first, please?” Francis requested in an oddly shy, tentative tone. He reached out and touched his fingers to James’ wrist. “Please.”

“Of course.”

“I know we should have talked about this sooner, from the start, really,” Francis began, withdrawing his hand. “What we expect of each other. What we want. You know I haven’t had anything that could be called a relationship since Tom arrived, I thought it was for the best because everything I do has an impact on him. I can’t let some entanglement affect him.”

James felt the knot in his stomach tightening as his hope flagged and withered. He nodded numbly. “I understand.”

“When you and I— when this started I thought it was just sex, just physical. And it was perfect, I didn’t expect anything else, but now—” Francis paused, his gaze fixed on his own hands. Then he took a deep breath as if to steel himself and looked up at James. “I can’t carry on like this, James, sleeping together and then acting like it means nothing to me. I don’t want only sex from you. I want all of you, your ridiculous stories and your cold hands and watering your plants when you’re away and your old trainers in our foyer and sleeping next to you. And Thomas— you’re so good with him, god, you’re perfect, but I know it’s not the same, being our friend, our neighbour, and being something more.”

“Francis,” James breathed, his voice gone rough and chocked.

“It’s alright if you don’t want that,” Francis hurried to say. “I’ll understand if you never thought about it as something deeper.”

“Francis,” he said more forcefully, unable to keep from laughing at his own relief. Francis’ expression closed at the sound, James grasped his hands, pulled them to his own lap. “For the last four months I’ve been telling myself this thing between us is nothing more than sex, just a convenient arrangement between friends but—” he looked up at Francis, at his sea blue eyes, wide and avid like he was drinking James in. “A few days ago I realised, if it was true I wouldn’t have to remind myself so often. I want more too, Francis. God, I want it so bad. I want to be in love with you, both of you. I want to be a part of you, if you’ll have me.” He huffed, “I even asked Tom’s blessing to ask you if you’d take me as your proper boyfriend.”

“What?” Francis’ brows went up, his expression dazed.

“I—” He faltered. Fuck, he’d overstepped, saying anything to Thomas before even speaking to Francis. “I told him it wasn’t a sure thing; I didn’t say anything improper, I swear. I just—”

“You did? Ask him?” Francis was squeezing his hands almost painfully.

James swallowed the knot in his throat and nodded. “Earlier actually, when you went out before dinner.”

A second later he was on his back on the sofa cushions, trapped beneath Francis’ body, Francis’ lips hungry against his. He let himself be thoroughly kissed before pulling back. “How are you so sure he said yes?” he panted, chuckling breathlessly.

“Of course he said yes, you bloody fool, he adores you,” Francis huffed, brushing James’ hair off his forehead. “Talked about you so much at Christmas my sisters thought he had an imaginary friend.”

“He did?” James felt the warmth of Francis’ words spread inside his chest. He knew his smile was nothing short of daft but he couldn’t stop it. “And what about you?”

“Did I talk about you?” Francis asked, amused. When James nodded he adopted an aloof expression. “Not a single word.”

“You awful man.” James dug his fingers into Francis’ sides until he squirmed.

Francis laughed but looked down at him with his impossibly soft expression. “My sisters are like sharks; they’d have known I’m besotted just by the way I say your name.”

James pulled him down for another kiss, thinking how Will had known just by looking at him. Then a sudden idea made him jolt and push Francis off him. “Let’s tell Tom!”

“Absolutely not.” Francis pressed him back down. “I just got his sleeping schedule back to normal and he’s going back to school on Monday. You can tell him in the morning.”

James grunted but sagged against the cushions. He let out a dreamy sigh. “I’ll take you boys out for breakfast. I know just the place for special occasions. I’ve been dying to show you my favourite restaurants. How do you guys feel about brasseries?”

Francis groaned but dived down to press his mouth to James’ neck, his beard a delicious tickle as James prattled on about all the things he wanted them to do together. And they would, starting tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a kinda joke fic about James meeting haunted doll Thomas Jopson at the park only to fall for his unexpectedly hot dad, but then everyone caught feelings and it snowballed into this and I had to stop myself from writing the next twenty years of their lives. Let's just say James' next travel show is all about the perfect spots for a family vacation. That, and someone pulls some strings to get him to the Arctic (where everything goes swimmingly).
> 
> If you like the story, please consider leaving kudos or a comment, I'll love you forever.


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